


Y'Can't Go Makin' a Habit o' This

by ThreeRavens



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-03
Updated: 2020-10-09
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:06:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26801113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThreeRavens/pseuds/ThreeRavens
Summary: My own contribution to the d'Artagnan-gets-hurt-and-doesn't-tell-anyone collection. In 3x07 we see a new side to Porthos, and it got into my head and wouldn't get out.It isn't that d'Artagnan is hell-bent on bleeding to death rather than admitting to any form of weakness. But in front of Athos and Aramis... well, he'll take the risk. When Porthos catches on, it falls to him to be the one d'Artagnan can trust.Plotless brotherhood. Set sometime between 1x02 and 1x03. Mistakes are mine, Musketeers are not.
Comments: 16
Kudos: 80





	1. Chapter 1

“Well, that was a merry chase!” Aramis called out as he and Porthos rode up to meet them. The marksman’s face was flushed underneath a coat of sweat-streaked dirt, and though his shoulders sagged from the long day in the saddle his eyes were bright and flashing with mischief. d’Artagnan allowed a small sigh of relief to escape his lips as they pulled up their horses, offering a momentary respite from the pain which flared from his leg and side at his horse’s every step.

“That _merry chase_ ,” Athos’ voice drawled from somewhere to d’Artagnan’s left, “took twice as long as it should have. At this point we have barely enough daylight to make it back to Paris.”

“But it’s so much more fun when they put up a good fight,” Aramis returned brightly, but then abruptly dropped his gaze and reached up a hand to push his hat down over his brow, and d’Artagnan knew without turning to look that Athos had fixed him with a stoney glare. “Right,” Aramis was all business now. “Our four _malandros_ won't be up to any more mischief. Yours?”

“Likewise,” Athos confirmed.

“Any pressing injuries?” Aramis’ sharp eyes roved over the other three. d’Artagnan clenched his teeth as he forced his aching back to straighten, and surreptitiously tugged at the fold of his cloak to make sure it still hid the bloody slash in his leathers. He could feel his cloth breeches underneath clinging to his thigh, and from the growing patch of sticky wetness he knew the wound was still bleeding. He quailed at the thought of the two hours’ hard ride that lay ahead of them, but as Aramis turned to him he forced himself to shake his head, though it made his ears ring and the edges of his vision blur. What would Athos think if he knew he’d gotten himself wounded on such a routine mission? What would any of them think of him if he let Aramis put up a fuss and insist they spend the night at the nearest village on his account, delaying their already-tardy return by an entire day? What future would he have with the Musketeers if he showed himself to be a liability? No, he thought, fixing his eyes firmly on the horizon to keep himself upright as they spurred their horses towards Paris. He had no choice.

It was just after sunset when they reached the gate of the garrison. d’Artagnan was doing his almighty best to stay upright in the saddle, the pain making him clench his jaw and squeeze the reins so tightly his knuckles were white and his nails dug into his palms hard enough to draw blood. But even with pain shooting red hot through his body it was getting harder and harder to keep his eyes open, and any time he turned his head his vision took dizzyingly long to catch up.

At the head of their small band, Athos dismounted and handed his horse’s reins to the cadet standing sentry, followed by Aramis. Treville’s voice carried across the training yard from where he stood on the balcony, hands braced on the railing: “You’re late.”

“We’ve been... occupied,” came the response, as Athos made his way into the yard. Treville gave a noncommittal harrumph, but made his way down the stairs rather than immediately summoning them up to his office.

d’Artagnan made to swing down from the saddle, but was stopped short by a fresh burst of agony from the additional weight on his injured leg as he stood up in the stirrups. He took a deep breath, waiting for the pain to subside and the black spots dancing in his vision to clear. If he dismounted to the left like he usually did given the choice, to avoid the extra complication from the sword at his left hip, he was sure his injured right leg wouldn’t support his weight when he landed. _To the right, then._ He gripped the pommel of the saddle and schooled his trembling limbs into submission as he transferred all his weight to his injured leg, clumsily catching his sheath on the saddle before he landed his good leg on the ground. He almost collapsed anyways as the sudden change in altitude made all the blood rush up to his head and and then plummet back down to his feet, depriving him of any sense of balance, but his shoulder encountered something solid. Something solid and warm, that smelled of leather and sweat and gunpowder. _Porthos._ The large Musketeer said nothing, just gave a nudge with his elbow to lever d’Artagnan back over his own feet.

Pulling his cloak tighter around him to keep the wound hidden, he forced his shoulders square and focused on putting one foot in front of the other, eyes fixed forward though he was aware of Porthos following a step behind him. _Walk to the foot of the stairs. Stand through whatever Treville was going to say. Walk back out of the garrison, away from eyes he did not want to see him in his present state. And then..._ One foot in front of the other. He wasn’t going to think about _and then_.


	2. Chapter 2

“He wasn’t alone,” Athos explained as they stood before Treville. “He was one of a band of ruffians who had established themselves in the forest a few leagues beyond the village. It took some time to track them down and root them out.” Treville nodded, less than pleased at the turn things had taken. “We dealt with all we found, but there could be more elsewhere.”

“Athos, I’ll take the full report in my office.” He indicated for their leader to follow him up the stairs. “Light duties for all of you tomorrow. Get some rest.”

After the door on the balcony closed behind the two men, Aramis turned and tipped his hat to Porthos and d’Artagnan before striding briskly out of the training yard, angling up the road to where he rented an extra, more secluded room outside the garrison. d’Artagnan turned to follow him out. Though he knew rationally it was the same distance he had crossed in a few careless strides just that morning, the gate seemed then to be impossibly far away, blending into the darkening night and the black shadows that clung to the edges of his vision. If he could only hold on a little while longer, if he could only make it to the gate, and drag his aching body out of sight of the garrison, then he could...

He managed one stumbling step before he was stopped by a burly arm looped around his shoulders in an amicable squeeze which took some of his weight off his own feet, and he felt himself being firmly steered in the opposite direction.

“It’s been a long day. Why don’t you come have a drink,” Porthos said, loudly enough for anyone nearby to hear.

“I can’t... I hafta... hafta go...” d’Artagnan tried to protest, but his voice was little more than a hoarse whisper, and the extra drain of air from his lungs made his head feel light and full of cobwebs.

Porthos paid no attention to his feeble objections as he guided the younger man towards his room in the garrison, bearing as much of d’Artagnan’s weight as he could without lifting him bodily off his feet. On the way in he picked up the lantern hanging outside his door and placed it on the table, casting a warm glow in the cozy chamber. With two buttons and a buckle undone d’Artagnan’s cloak and weapons belt fell to the floor; in another moment they were followed by Porthos’.

d’Artagnan vaguely registered the transition from the dusky training yard to the lamp-lit indoors, but his mind was too slow to gather much else as he found himself maneuvered around the unfamiliar space. Something bumped against the back of his leg, and he was levered into a seated position.

“Here. Drink.” A bottle was pushed into his hand. He dumbly did as he was told, too disoriented to consider any other option. His hands trembled, his body refusing to obey him any longer, and it took him several tries to remove the stopper before shakily raising the bottle. He saw Porthos reach towards it, and instinctively lifted his free arm to bat him away and opened his mouth to say _I can do it myself_ ; but to his surprise Porthos did not take the bottle from him. His large hand came to a stop cupped underneath the bottom of the bottle, steadying it as d’Artagnan brought it to his lips and took a long draft. The rich wine washed the dust from his throat and trickled down to form a warm pool in his stomach. Still befuddled, he allowed Porthos to continue supporting the bottle -- perhaps it _was_ easier without the glass rim knocking against his teeth – as he took another swallow, then handed it back.

Porthos lit a fire in the fireplace from the flame of the lamp, and between the additional light and the lucidity which came from sitting down and staying still rather than on his feet and having a bit of wine in his system to take the edge off the pain, the details of his new surroundings began to filter slowly into d'Artagnan's mind. A room. A table. A chair. _A bed._ He was sitting on a bed. Not his bed. A window, with old weather-worn panes like the ones at the garrison. 

_The garrison._ He was at the garrison. His hands fumbled for the reassurance of his cloak covering his leg, only for him to recall belatedly that Porthos had divested him of it somewhere between the door and the bed he was now sitting on. He felt suddenly very exposed.

He shouldn’t be here.

He couldn’t be seen like this, he couldn't let them find out he was wounded.

He had to get out.

He stumbled to his feet, gasping as fire once again shot up his thigh and burned in his side.

“Hey!” came Porthos’ voice from beside the fireplace

“Hafta... go...”

“Hey, none o’ that now.” Quick as a cat, Porthos was in front of him, gripping his shoulders.

“I...” d’Artagnan tried again.

“You’re stayin’ right here,” Porthos said gently, pushing the young man back down onto the edge of the bed.

d’Artagnan tried to turn away, his mind a black whirlpool of renewed dizziness and panic.

“Here.” d’Artagnan felt a rough, calloused hand warm against his cheek. “Look at me.” Porthos’ voice was low and soft. “Look at me,” he repeated, and d’Artagnan yielded to the pressure of the hand cupping his chin and took in the face of the man crouched before him, deep brown eyes level with his own. Not hard with accusation like Athos’. Not flashing with alarm like Aramis’. Porthos’ eyes were open and honest. He let his thoughts be written clearly in them, and there d’Artagnan could read nothing but warmth and understanding. Warily he let out the breath he hadn’t been aware he was holding.

“Tha’s it,” Porthos soothed. “You’re stayin’ right here.”


	3. Chapter 3

Porthos put a steaming bowl of water and some clean cloths on the nighttable next to the bed.

“Let’s see what we’re dealing with, shall we?”

d’Artagnan blinked, a tentative acknowledgement which was not refusal but also not quite acquiescence. The older Musketeer put a hand under his elbow, but waited for him to push himself up before helping him to his feet. d’Artagnan felt the heat rise to his cheeks, but, keeping a hand firmly on his arm to steady him, Porthos turned back to the nightstand and began dipping the cloths one by one into the bowl, as though it was all the most natural thing in the world. Porthos waited patiently, eyes still on the table, while his fingers fumbled clumsily with the buttons at his hips. Once he had gotten his riding leathers down to his thighs Porthos eased him back down, and kneeling down on the floor in front of him pulled off his boots and began to ease his leathers the rest of the way off. He hissed in pain as the stiff material pulled at his wound; the movement stopped for a moment, then resumed more slowly, until he was left in just his breeches and stockings. He looked down, and his eyes grew wide in alarm. A long gash ran diagonally down the outside of his thigh, carving through skin and into muscle. He had seen the slash in his leathers, but now seeing it on his own flesh, dark blood still seeping out, and the wet black stain on his breeches which reached from hip to knee... Fear rose in his chest, wrapping strangling fingers around his throat.

“How bad...?” he whispered, ashamed to hear his voice give out.

Porthos tore the gaping hole in the fabric all the way down to the cuff and rolled it up to lay the wound bare. He hummed nocommitally, picking up a wet cloth. His huge hands, which d’Artagnan had seen snap men’s bones like dry kindling, were impossibly gentle as they moved over his abused skin, mindful of the raw edges of the wound as he dabbed away the mess of dried blood that clung there. “Ya still ‘ave enough blood left in ya right now. Some stitches t’ keep i’ tha’ way, an’ y’ll be alright.”

d’Artagnan let his breath out slowly and stared into the fire, watching the yellow tongues of flame flicker and dance hypnotically.

“But if’n ya wandered off alone an’ fell off yer feet without tendin’ it, you’d be ‘alfway ta the grave by mornin’.”

He jerked his head up in indignation, but when he met Porthos’ gaze he felt his anger melt away. There was no reproach in the wide earnest eyes, only warmth, and some other emotion pulsing beneath like the throb of a beating heart.

 _Care_ , he realized. The great bear of a man who was one of the Kings best Musketeers... _cared_... about him. But without pity, without condescension. Not as one might care for a helpless child or an obedient dog, but as man to man.

Porthos put the cloth aside and reached up his hand to d’Artagnan’s shounder to give it a gentle shake. “This has happened too often of late,” he said, his rich voice rumbling up from deep in his chest, “But y’can’t go makin’ a habit o’ this.”

“I... I’m sorry,” d’Artagnan heard his own voice whisper. He tore his gaze away and stared back into the fire, trying desperately to wrestle down the flood of swirling thoughts and emotions that surged up in him, as though some great dam inside him had been broken. He strove to compose himself, to push them down and keep them in, but the walls of the little room seemed suddenly far away, the air thinning between them, and the listening silence of the great man at his side seemed to expand, pulling, drawing it out from him, waiting to soak it up like parched fields wait for summer rain. He felt himself shaking as the words bubbled to his lips.

“I didn’t mean to, I just... I can’t...”

Porthos was motionless except for a small nod, waiting, expecting, and the wave rose again and came rushing out.

“Aramis makes such an embarrassing fuss over nothing...”

 _Would hardly call that ‘nothing’,_ Porthos thought. A man could bleed to death from a wound like that. But he kept those thoughts to himself. It was enough that the young man was finally starting to trust him. And after all he had to admit, Aramis could be a bit... _dramatic._

“... and Athos...” d’Artagnan’s eyes turned to him, wide and desperate in bewilderment.

 _... is Athos,_ Porthos finished to himself as d’Artagnan’s voice trailed off. He sighed inwardly. Athos was a hard man to understand. On the dark drunken nights when he tried in vain to drown his dispair, it often seemed that even Athos didn’t understand himself. But while it was one thing for Athos to torture himself, it was another when someone else was hurt by it.

To the recruits he was stingy with praise and free with criticism, which was mostly delivered with unnerving detachment but occasionally with blazing fury that could seem to come out of nowhere. His manner was cold and uncaring; he held himself never above but simply apart, which perhaps made him seem all the more callous for his disregard those who he seemed to consider as his peers. And when some bit of concern or empathy did manage to break through the walls he had erected around himself, more often than not it came out as anger as well, as though that were the only emotion he was able to give voice to. Porthos knew there was more underneath, he know how to read the subtle cues to Athos’ true feelings: the cant of his shoulders, the quirk of his lips, the jut of his chin, the furrow between his brows, which were belied by his steeled gaze and measured voice. Porthos knew he felt fear and pain and shame like any man. But the Athos d’Artagnan knew did not, and that was a dangerous sort of man to look up to.

And Porthos had seen how d’Artagnan fairly worshipped the older man. The lad was in awe of him, desperate to win his approval. It was as though he was still trying to make up for his initial misjudgement that cloudy gray morning when he had first come to Paris. Porthos knew that Athos had long since forgiven him, if there was even anything to forgive: Athos had made it clear many times that he was careless of his own life, and had accepted or even instigated enough duels that one more was hardly worth mentioning. If anything, it was the bold determination d’Artagnan had showed that day and his singleminded pursuit of justice which had convinced Athos to ask Treville to welcome him into the garrison. No, Athos’ grudge was against the world at large; it just took time to learn not to take it personally. Time which d’Artagnan had not yet had.

He wished desperately that he could explain, to say that it was the haunting of his past which made Athos heedless of threats to life and limb and indifferent to companionship, that he pushed men away not because of their shortcomings but because of his own fears.That he was France’s greatest Musketeer not because of these traits, but despite them. Their youngest companion desperately needed to know, and sooner rather than later – he resolved to say as much to Athos in the morning – that Athos was dealing with his own demons. But that was for no man but Athos to disclose.

Porthos sighed.

“I’d trust my brothers with my life,” he ventured, watching d’Artagnan’s face carefully for any sign of his earlier defensiveness, but the young man was thoroughly spent. “But as long as you're honest with one of us, tha’ll do for now.”


	4. Chapter 4

d’Artagnan’s whole body jerked at the sudden sting of alcohol on raw flesh, and following the sting came a great burning sensation which grew deeper as the liquid soaked into the wound, until the marrow of his very bones seemed to swell and liquefy. His eyes squeezed shut and his mouth opened in a silent scream, the pound of his heartbeat crashing like thunder through his head. His left hand flew out, searching blindly for something, anything, to cling to in the storm. He found an arm, stable and solid, and he gripped it with all his might as he fought against the wave of pain crashing down over him. Porthos transferred the near-empty bottle from right hand to left and put it down on the floor, and put his free hand over d’Artagnan’s right hand which was tearing at the blankets. It was immediately seized with desperate force, and Porthos let d’Artagnan hold onto him, putting up no protest though his knuckles ground together and he was sure there would be bruises on his forearm. Time stood still for d’Artagnan, and though it couldn’t have been more than a few moments it felt like hours before he became aware of Porthos’ hand gently squeezing his fingers, coaxing his awareness back to the little firelit room.

“Tha’s it, ‘s over now. Jus’ breathe.” The voice was low and soft, repeating the words again in a soothing rhythm: “ ‘s over. Jus’ breathe.” Obediently he drew a shuddering breath, and opened his eyes to take in Porthos’ face before him, eyes soft, lips curved into a kind smile. He looked down slightly, and saw his own hands, one fastened around Porthos’ lower arm, the other encased by the man’s own. He noticed finally how tightly they were gripping, and endeavored to release the cramping muscles. At first his hands didn’t want to obey him, but the moment he managed to loosen his clenched fingers his arms fell limply to his sides and he felt the strength drain out of him. The room spun, and he fought to remain upright, but there was a strong arm around his back and he leaned gratefully into the support.

When the wave of dizziness passed, he raised his head and blinked blearily, but his whole body felt about as solid as a wet rag and he could summon up the energy to do nothing more.

“Le’s get ya onto the bed, shall we?” He felt the vibrations emanating from deep in the large man’s chest rumble through his side, and he gave a weary nod. An arm scooped up under his knees and swung his legs up onto the bed, and Porthos maneuvered him with practiced ease, leaning him back propped up with pillows against the headboard. He turned his head to watch warily as Porthos threaded a needle, then doused both needle and thread with the remaining wine.

“M' stitches aren’t the prettiest, but they’ll have to do.”

d’Artagnan jerked his head in a nod. “Just get it done.”

The corner of Porthos’ mouth twitched in a grin. “There’s a brave lad,” he said, giving d’Artagnan’s shoulder a squeeze, trying to impart some strength into the young man for the ordeal yet to come.

The agonizing tear of sharp metal and coarse thread through already-mangled flesh made flashes of white light dance behind d’Artagnan’s half-closed eyelids; he arched his back against the headboard, fingers desperately wringing the sheets. Porthos had to brace d’Artagnan’s hip with his knee to keep his leg still as he worked, forcing his hands to stay steady even as his heart jolted in his chest at every pain-filled gasp. He almost wished that the young man would succumb to unconsciousness, allowing the darkness to wash over him and take him far away from the pain Porthos was forced to inflict on him. But he clung stubbornly to awareness as Porthos placed fourteen slightly-crooked stitches across the outside of his thigh, drawing together the gaping edges of the wound to form a bloody seam in his flesh. When at last it was over d’Artagnan was trembling from head to toe, his brow covered in a thin sheen of sweat, the front of his shirt soaked in it. A large hand pressed firmly against his shoulder, propping him up as he listed to the side. He could smell the metallic scent of his own blood clinging to the older man's fingers, but it felt solid, grounding, a fixed point in a world which was spinning dizzily, expanding and contracting as his body reacted belatedly to the shock.

Eventually the trembling subsided, leaving his limbs limp and heavy; but it was soon replaced by shivering. Porthos realized that the fire had burned down to coals and the room was once again growing cold. He added another log to the fire, then returned to the bedside, determined to get the young man tucked warmly under the blankets: in his weakened state he would be in no condition to fight off a chill. But as Porthos helped him out of his jacket, maneuvering his pliant arms out of the sleeves, d’Artagnan couldn’t help the wince when the movement pulled at his side, igniting the nearly-forgotten throb into a sharp lance of pain.

“Any other injuries ya feel like telling me about?” Porthos’ tone was gentle, but his eyes were serious.

“M’ ribs,” d’Artagnan mumbled, immediately abandoning the thought of trying to hide anything. “Flat of a sword..." the effort of speaking had exhausted him, and he stopped to draw a breath. " 'cross my back... let my guard down... shouldn't... my fault...” The pitch of his voice rose, his breaths becoming shallower, eyes taking on a crazed brightness.

"Hey, shush now," the older man soothed, his voice a steady rumble as he helped him ease the other arm out of the jacket which he placed neatly-folded on the nighttable. "These things happen. It's no one's fault but the man who did it to you." He watched as the young man's breathing hitched and gradually slowed, his eyes still wary but no longer panicked. "And if he weren't already dead, I'd like to kill him myself." In spite of himself, d'Artagnan felt the corners of his mouth turning up in a feeble grin as he looked up at the great man; he had heard stories of the formidable Musketeer's thirst for revenge against any and all who wished his comrades ill. Porthos lifted the hem of his shirt, and he obediently allowed himself to be rolled onto his side. He hissed through his teeth as fingerpads brushed over the splotches of black and purple that bloomed just below his shoulderblade, prodding gently.

“Nicely bruised, but not broken,” he concluded. “Not much t' do 'bout it. Aramis might 'ave a salve for th' pain, I could...”

“No!” d’Artagnan interrupted, his voice suddenly strong, but not for long as it wavered once again in plea: “No Aramis.”

“Alright,” Porthos acquiesced with a sigh. It would mean greater discomfort, but no danger. The subject of the other Musketeers didn’t have to be addressed right now, though would eventually. Their new companion had been reluctant enough to let _anyone_ tend to him, he didn’t want to jeopardize his newfound trust by pushing farther than he had to. He braced d’Artagnan’s torso with one arm while he rearranged the pillows, then eased the young man onto his back flat on the bed. He pulled the blankets up over him, content to see him relax into the warmth with a tired sigh, his eyelids starting to drift down. “Get some sleep.”

D’Artagnan blinked blearily, and Porthos thought he was about to obey; but then suddenly he tried to sit up, fighting against the condition of his body to make it halfway off the pillows, eyes wide in confusion and distress.

“Wha' is it?” Porthos asked, unsure whether to be alarmed or amused.

“Your bed,” d’Artagnan mumbled out, looking at Porthos with apology in his eyes, “I’m lying in your bed.” He made another attempt to rise, but Porthos stopped him with a large hand on his shoulder, pushing him firmly back down to the pillows. The older man chuckled. “What did you think the chair was for?” d’Artagnan struggled for a moment, warring with himself, but the weight of the hand resting on his shoulder was too heavy for him to resist, and it radiated a comforting warmth. He felt his eyelids once again growing heavier and heavier, until he couldn’t keep them open any longer and gave way to the welcoming darkness.

It was several minutes before Porthos moved. He waited patiently, hand resting on the young man’s shoulder, watching the rise and fall of his chest beneath the blankets, until the last of the tension in his body relaxed and his breathing slowed and deepened into the even rhythm of sleep. Porthos straightened up slowly, and picked his way to the fireplace. He poured a fresh bowl of water and scrubbed the blood from his hands and the dust and dried sweat from his face. He opened the cupboard and took out a loaf of bread and a hunk of cheese, munching as he unbuttoned his jacket and pulled off his boots and riding leathers. He brushed them off and folded them neatly, then turned back around to put them in the trunk which lay at the foot of the bed.

He looked once again at the young man lying there, pale and still. On a sudden impulse, he reached out to brush a lock of dark hair off his forehead. d’Artagnan tipped his head towards the touch and mumbled something in his sleep. Startled, Porthos went to withdraw his hand, not wanting to disturb any further the rest the young man desperately needed. But as he did, a hand reached out. It found Porthos’ and wrapped around his fingers. At first he thought d’Artagnan must have woken, but no, his breathing was still deep and even, his features lax. Porthos sighed. He had been thinking to change into a clean shirt and breeches, and to go see if there were any leftovers to be scrounged from the kitchen; but he didn’t have the heart to pull away. The young man had had a rough day – no, make that a rough two months – and any small comfort Porthos could offer, he would not begrudge. He hooked the chair with his foot, drawing it close to the bed, and settled himself into it, carefully lowering their joined hands to the pillows. He propped his feet up on the edge of the mattress and leaned his head back, and soon his low rumbling snores joined d’Artagnan’s quiet breathing.


End file.
